YWP Community Leader Newsletter - 11.4.2019

Motion By Love to Write

If I'm being honest, November is probably my least favorite month. The color is gone from the leaves, the flowers, the fruits...pretty much everything outside is brown. As one of many writers that absorb inspiration from nature, my creativity at this time of year can feel a bit...murky. In November, it can be easy to slip into an apathetic waiting; for the holidays, for snow, for the light to come back (please!), which is exactly why I'm excited to be doing the newsletter this month! This November, I'm going to challenge myself to keep the spark of creativity alight, and what better way than to read some of the incredible work which this community creates, sun or storm. November marks a time of transition - of longer evenings and a growing appreciation of sun and warmth; a time to keep moving forward, and find the beauty in a month so often taken for granted. Let's start this transiton with poems and art that capture an array of movement and change. Luminous, pensive, tempestuous - all are beautiful. 

As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP newsletter. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular. 

Welcome to the YWP newsletter: curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite works from the past two weeks. We aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers, and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience and provide our busy members a taste of recent pieces we loved. We hope you  become a returning reader! Check out the other newsletters here and share the link with people you know who may enjoy it. 

Contributors to this issue: annadauerman, cedar, Dramtic456, gaia_lenox, 15hensandarooster, Inkpaw, knmarcot, Love to Write, Marina2020

By Dramatic456

They are stars, glowing from afar on a dimly lit stage
Creating constellations, weaving a story of old
Rolling across the sky to reach for another
To hold each other
To lift each other
To become one with each other
If dance is the ink this story is written in
Then emotion is the pages it is written on
The underlying aspect that holds everything together
Arguments are held
Love confessions are made
Difficult times are powered through
And all without the use of a single word
With sharp turns
And dramatic gestures
And emphatic expressions
A language that transcends the rest
Every action is matched with another
Though not every action tells the same story
​A lift of the arms can mean angry defiance
Or wholehearted acceptance
And every move is choreographed to synchronized perfection
By these experts in their craft
Who use every part of their bodies
Faces, arms, wheelchairs
To tell the story in a truly unique way
They are liquid puzzle pieces
Fitting and flowing together
Until you can barely see the edges
The music that guides them assists where words cannot
Swells for triumph and reconnection
Corrupted, jerky notes for panic
Thin, drawn-out pieces for tension
Placing a golden frame around an already beautiful painting
A painting of Venus and Andromeda
Arms tight around each other
In their descent

(Art credit: Inkpaw)
By annadauerman

I can't wait for winter,
for the time when I wake up
and I hear my Mom tell me
that it's a snow day, 
when I can charge down the hallway,
and practically slam down 
my sister's door.
"Wanna cross-country ski?"

But, I'm just wondering
which winter will be our last
good year of skiing?
Which will be the year,
where by the time that we
wake up the snow will be slushy?
I'm just wondering 
if I have a kid, whether or not
they will be able to learn
to cross-country ski in the same
backyard that I learned from.
The backyard that I grew up
watching my sisters sled down hills,
make paths to ski on,
and making forts in the snow.

I'm just wondering
how it'll feel when I have kids,
the moment when they
look me straight in my eyes
and ask me whatever happened
to the beautiful woods.
I'm just wondering
why isn't there a mandatory
class about what is happening
to our earth because
of human impact?
I'm just wondering 
why there aren't rules and laws
to protect our earth from
the major destruction
we've caused.

My biggest question is,
what if there isn't an answer.
What if there is too much
carbon dioxide already
contained in our earth?
I'm just wondering what you think
I'm supposed to tell the generation
that comes after me?
That I didn't do anything to help?
I don't think so.
But, I'm just wondering.

(Photo credit: knmarcot)
By gaia_lenox

Last night I fell asleep listening to the 
rain hit my window 

the wind blew so hard 
that the house tipped over 
and I slept on the walls 

the heavy drops shattered the glass panes 
and filled up my room 
with their seeds of change 
and new ideas 

so I closed my eyes and 
pretended the world 
was not so backwards 

once someone asked me 
how I fell in love with lightning 

why I sat at my window every night 
wishing for the sky to break in half 

I never told them the answer 

instead I broke all the glass in my house 
hoping without mirrors I wouldn’t have to worry 

sometimes I dream of far away places 
but with the storm beyond the glass 
I dream of nothing at all 

instead I wonder 
if lightning ever gets self conscious
about how loud she is 

I wonder if she wishes she was a sunflower 
beautiful and quiet 

she shatters the world in half 
and opens up the sky 
so I can see all the stars 

I never told you how I feel like lightening 
how I feel like sometimes I take up too much space 

I never told you 
how I love sunflowers 
because I wish I could be them 

I never told you 
how I sing words to the stars 
wishing I could sprout wings and fly  

but I am the daughter of Icarus 

I was not made to fly 
I was made to break in half 
and pour words into different colors vases 

and then throw them at brick walls
just to see what happens 

I tumble backwards through time 
digging through the thousands of beautiful faces 
to find myself 

All my freckles have changed 
so has my heart 
I am no longer made of soft fabric and silk strings 

I am made of crumpled paper 
and pencil shavings and blue sky 

I am made of the boy 
with the square windowpanes 
that keep his world from tipping over
and who smells like rain 

I am made of sandboxes 
and love for the ocean 

I am made of a thousand different books and 
nervous breaths and 
carnivorous butterflies and 
everything is going to be fine 

Because I am the daughter of Icarus 
and the walls are a good place to sleep
(Photo credit: Marina2020)